The Crow: Righteousness
by shattenfreude
Summary: Braedon and his lover Dallas are murdered after protesting Arizona's anti-gay marriage law. Braedon is brought back two years later to avenge their deaths, only to learn the terrible truth about who ordered the killings. Slash, sorta


The Crow: Righteousness

Author: Sianne

Rating: R for Violence, Language, Sexual Situations

Pairings: Braedon/Dallas, others not relevant

Summary: Braedon and his lover Dallas are murdered after protesting Arizona's anti-gay marriage law. Braedon is brought back two years later to avenge their deaths, only to learn the terrible truth about who ordered the killings.

Prologue

He was only vaguely aware of the rain that was hitting him on the face. It was a warm rain, not as if he knew any other kind. It hit the ground, making the pavement nearby hiss with steam. He noticed none of this, being far too occupied with the urgency of climbing out of the sandy ground that entombed him. Everything here was sandy. Spitting out great mouthfuls of it, he flopped sideways on the broken ground, panting heavily. He was filthy, covered with slime and mud, blood and sand and muck, as if he had just been birthed again. He was confused, eyes rolling wildly around to get the bearings of his surroundings. There was a stone - a tall stone in front of him that he knew bore some significance. He squinted at it, trying to read the writing scratched on the surface through the grit and unidentifiable gunk that was now running down into his eyes. A name, and dates.

Braedon Andrew Crane, July 14, 1976 - May 22, 2003.

Braedon Crane...that was his name. July 14, 1976...that was his birth date. And May 22, 2003...there was something about that date he didn't like. He hissed softly, his hands making claws in the sandy mud and scraping it back and forth, back and forth as he stared at the stone. May, May, the twenty second of May. But there was a party, and he and Dallas had to go...the reality hit him like a kick to the stomach and he retched violently into the hole, bringing up nothing but more sandy earth and something stringy and black, which made him ill and lightheaded. He tried to scream, but nothing came from his mouth save a hoarse sort of yell. He stayed hunched over the broken earth for a long time, until the pain in his stomach had twisted into a sick sort of tingle, and he got the feeling that he was being watched. Resting one hand on the ground, he looked up, across a sea of similar stones, benches, and toppled over flower displays. There was a twisted old tree nearby, soaking up the rain greedily as one does in the desert. The thing watching him was there, and Braedon looked at it, meeting a pair of interested, judgmental amber eyes.

"Caw!

A crow.

Bemused and a little curious, though not alarmed, Braedon got unsteadily to his feet. The bird shifted from one foot to the other, crawing again before spreading its wings and taking flight. He watched it fly away, feeling a wrench somewhere in his chest at the sight of it leaving. He wanted to call it back...he didn't know why, but the sight of another living being was an odd comfort to him. His mind was fuzzy, and he needed...he needed...an anchor. Was the crow an anchor? Before he could ponder this too thoroughly, the bird was back, landing with a rustle of feathers on a headstone nearby and scolded him. Braedon stared at the bird. It cawed again, hoarsely, then spread its wings again. Curious, Braedon followed the crow. It led him along the cemetery road and towards the highway. He did not stop to wonder about the sheer absurdity of his situation, focusing single-mindedly on the task ahead of him, which was to follow the large black bird as it soared along above him. Bare feet struck the pavement steadily, mud and things he preferred not to think about dripping slowly down the legs of his pants, running cold on his ankles. He had been buried, that much he had surmised...but why? The rain was coming down in torrents now, a real squall, such as the desert did not see but once a summer.

"Caw!" He stared up at the bird, shivering slightly, though the night was very warm. It was always warm in Phoenix. Dallas had complained about the heat endlessly every time the temperature had risen above eighty. Then again, Dallas had been a bit of a wuss as far as temperature was concerned. Crunch! Braedon looked down, unaware that he had stopped moving until he started again. There was a half crushed scorpion under his foot. He stopped in the roadbed again, staring down at the dead thing. Dallas hadn't liked scorpions either. He'd hated them, and he...he...

There was something building deep in his chest and he clawed at it, unable to get it out and he didn't recognize the sound he was making, didn't know why it was hurting his ears like this. He was screaming and screaming, on his hands and knees on the pavement, the thunder covering part of it, the rain not drowning out the rest. Memories came flooding back, assaulting his mind with the precision of a scorpion's sting. Dallas was his lover, the one man he'd chosen, vowed to love until death and beyond, vowed to protect... He'd failed. He hadn't been able to stop it, stop...stop... He didn't realize his hands were over his ears until he took them away and with them came long, dirty strands of hair. He shuddered, raising himself to his knees, unaware that he had fallen. The panic gone, he became aware of a soft crunching noise and turned to find that the crow had landed beside him on the road and was now eating the scorpion, pausing with half the thing dangling from his beak to fix him with one fierce amber eye. The rain didn't appear to bother it. Braedon shuddered and looked away. He couldn't get the image of innards hanging from the crow's beak.

"Why?" Braedon whispered stupidly, half expecting the bird to answer. It didn't, of course, merely took flight again, and Braedon followed.

The crow took him to The Keep, one of Phoenix's smaller gay bars. The windows were boarded though, and no lights came from within. It had been closed a long time from the looks of things. Braedon thought at once that he was late for something, then came to the logical conclusion that he didn't work there anymore. Couldn't, at the state of things. He picked his way through the debris in the alley to the employee entrance behind the bar, the passing cars apparently unconcerned with a muddy, dirty man who looked as if he had just escaped from a mental ward. The rain was letting up and the streetlights gave off a sickly, yellow light that threw everything into odd shadows. Everything was supposed to look clean, after a rain...but now it just looked as if someone had mixed oil and water. The back door was where he'd always gone in, and there were no boards over it, the glass still dusty because of the overhang. A key had been taped to the underside of the trash can...only the trash can wasn't there any more. Tentatively, he reached out and grasped the doorknob. His world collapsed.

i"Well look what we got here. You going to the fag-ball, you fucking queer?" /i

"No!" Braedon yelped, jerking his hand away from the doorknob as if burned. He was panting, his eyes wide. The crow perched on a light post, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. Yet Braedon knew. Dallas had walked out of the bar and straight into hell, where Braedon had unwittingly followed ten minutes later. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the doorknob again, grateful when nothing else happened. The door was locked, naturally, and he yanked on it in annoyance. To his very great surprise, the door came right off its hinges, nearly sending him tumbling backwards. He squinted, pushing his hair out of his face again, before shrugging and stepping inside. A small red light blinked on somewhere, and a silent alarm was tripped, but Braedon noticed neither of these things. His eyes were drawn to the papers that had been framed and hung on the walls. Newspaper headlines, some of them sounding very familiar. He stopped to read a few of them: "Anti Gay Marriage Law Passes, Thousands Protest Lawmakers Victory." "Sanctity of Marriage Preserved, Religious Leaders Claim." "Gay and Lesbian Rights Groups to Stage Protest at State Capital." Then a newer one still yellowed but not as badly as the others...just near a boarded up window. "Prominent Gay Rights Couple Slain in Wake of Protest, Police Investigate Hate Crime."

Braedon felt queasy, as if he were going to throw up again. Dallas' face stared out at him from the article, next to his own. He remembered posing for that picture, remembered the scratchiness of the sweater, the photographer's attitude and the endless questions. He dimly recalled that Dallas would have been mortified to have his picture in the paper under such a headline, but he dismissed that thought almost automatically. Dallas had always been sensitive at being so publicly thought of as gay. Braedon hadn't cared...hadn't minded that Dallas didn't come around the bar, didn't browse with him in the bookstore, and blushed horribly when he insisted on holding hands in public.

He tore his gaze away from the pictures with difficulty, treading his way towards the back of the bar. Broken glass crunched under his feet and he shuddered, automatically thinking of scorpions. Glancing down, he saw only a thick carpet of dust and the sparkling bits of what had at one point been a martini glass. Out of habit, he flicked the light switch in the hall, and was mildly surprised when one light bulb flickered on. He found the employee bathroom, the rusty showerhead still dripping. Howie had liked to keep a shower just in case some of the younger workers had needed it. Sweet Howie, hiring anyone who asked for a job, even if they were living on the street. Judging from the mildew that had spread over half the wall, the shower had been dripping for a while now. Odd, for a building that had been closed for a while to still have running water, he thought briefly. He turned it on with a shaking hand, and stepped underneath the steady stream of icy water. It shocked him momentarily, that he could still feel. Soon though, the feeling had faded to numbness. He started pulling off his clothes under the healing stream of water, closing his eyes until he felt something odd in his chest. The water wasn't running straight down, it was swirling around something. He opened his eyes and glanced downwards. There were...holes in his chest, several of them. Stunned, he stuck his finger in one. One, two, three holes. His finger touched metal -

iBang! He felt that one, the bullet slamming into his chest, the pain knocking his breath from his body. He fell, eyes wide and mouth open in agony, writhing on the pavement.

"Stupid fag's still breathing!"

"Gimme a minute."

Bang! Bang! /i

He staggered into the wall of the shower, clutching his head. Naked, he stumbled from it, leaving the water running, soaked through. His hands covered his eyes, thumbs pressing against his eyebrows to block out the images. The first thing he grabbed on the hook was a dusty leather apron...someone had just left it there.

i"Hey, hon, it's past closing time. Let's go, we're gonna be late." Dallas complained. He had a pout that was made for complaining, full lips under a button nose. Braedon grinned at him.

"I know, I know. Did you change?"

Dallas grinned back, and pulled open his ankle length duster to reveal a full tuxedo underneath, with blue satin vest and bowtie.

"Sexy!" Braedon whistled, and was rewarded with the rising blush in Dallas' cheeks. He had only come out the year before and was still shy about other men telling him he was sexy.

"Give me ten minutes in the bathroom and I'll be ready." Braedon promised, closing out his till. Dallas buttoned his coat again.

"Need any help?"

"If you try to help me, baby, we'll never get there." Braedon purred. He reached across the bar and cupped Dallas' cheek. "You know how I get when you put your hands on me."

Dallas went scarlet, and Braedon grinned. Teasing Dallas was almost too easy. He leaned across the bar and crushed their lips together, ignoring the older man's squawk of surprise.

"Wait for me, okay?" He breathed after a moment. Dallas could only nod, heading out the door. /i

"Stop, stop, stop!" He hissed. He hadn't remembered the pain of it, had he? He couldn't remember. With an almost desperate groan, he dragged his hands down his face, jagged thumbnails cutting bloody lines through too-pale skin, leaving furrows from forehead to cheeks. That hurt. In a way he was glad that it hurt, glad that he could still feel. Blood ran down his cheeks, dripping off his jaw. Panting, he stumbled over to the mirror, staring at his reflection. Lank, dark hair hung to his shoulders. Dark eyes looked back at him, haunted. The lines he'd cut in his face had stopped bleeding, the blood somehow vanishing. A single blackish red drop quivered on his jawline and then dripped sluggishly into the sink. Yet the lines remained, angry and red. One longer than the other, one slightly thicker. Disturbed slightly in a way he couldn't quite put a finger on; he wandered naked out of the bathroom, padding across the floor with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The crow had followed him inside and was now pecking with studious interest at a spot on the bar.

Besides framed photos and newspaper articles, there was also a collection of memorabilia on shelves and in framed boxes. Gloves from Elton John, a jacket from Boy George...all things of interest that the previous owners of the bar hadn't bothered to take with them. Squinting, Braedon ambled towards the pool table, where a long framed box held a suit of clothing. An ache rose in his chest as he recognized it, his steps quickening. It was the tuxedo that he had been going to wear that night. He stopped in front of it, staring. It was old fashioned, with long tails that brushed the knees of the trousers, full cut brushed black wool, with black and red silk brocade vest. Black tie. The shoes, gloves, and top hat were in a separate box...that stupid top hat that Dallas had begged him to wear. He bit his lip until it bled, looking at it. With a sudden low growl, he drew his fist back and smashed the glass, shattering it into thousands of shards. His hands were bleeding, but he did not care. By the time he'd reached into the box and pulled out the clothes, he'd stopped bleeding anyway, the cuts already healed. He didn't stop to question the oddness of it, stepping into the trousers, pulling them up and fastening the button carefully. White shirt, vest, and black tailcoat. His fingers fumbled as he tied the tie around his neck. Fit the cufflinks onto the shirt, that's the way...what was this in his pocket? Lipstick? Why lipstick?

i"Braedon, I don't have pockets. Would you be a dear and carry this for me?" /i

Colette's. The lipstick was Colette's. She and her partner Marie were supposed to meet them at the party. They hadn't made it. Braedon smiled slightly, remembering Colette and Marie...their scent, their laughter...the way Marie had adopted Dallas right off the bat when he'd introduced him. He uncapped the lipstick and swiped it across his lips. Dark blood red, almost purple. Setting the top hat on his head at a jaunty angle, he slipped his feet into the black patent leather shoes. There. Looking at himself in the mirror, he was somewhat shocked. The furrows on his face had still not faded, and were as bright red as ever, slashing across his eyes and halfway down his cheeks. Blood from where he'd bitten his lip had leaked out the corners of his mouth, staining the corners of his mouth into a wide parody of a smile...and that lipstick. He rubbed at it, but to his surprise it did not come off. It was if he was wearing a very odd mask. The crow hopped from one foot to the other, apparently in approval. Braedon pulled on his gloves fastidiously. Time to get to work.


End file.
